Mr. Manly looked up. Here's the thing, boys. St. Paul asked God three times to let him up from all these hardships. And you know what God said to him? Mr. Manly's gaze dropped to the book. He said, 'My grace is sufficient for thee, for strength is made perfect in weakness.'
Now Mr. Manly sat back, just barely smiling, looking expectantly from Raymond to Harold, waiting for one of them to speak. Either one, he didn't care.
He didn't even care what they said, as long as one of them spoke.
Raymond was looking down at his hands, fooling with one of his fingernails. Harold was looking down too, his head bent low, and his eyes could have been open or closed.
Strength did you hear that, boys? is made perfect in weakness.
He waited.
He could ask them what it meant.
He began thinking about the words. If you're weak the Lord helps you. Or strength stands out more in a weak person. Like it's more perfect, more complete, when a weak person gets strong.
No, that wasn't what it meant.
It meant no matter how weak you were you could get strong if you wanted.
Maybe. Or else it was the part just before which was the important part. God saying My grace is sufficient for thee. That's right, no matter what the temptaion was.
Norma Davis could come in here and show herself and do all kinds of terrible things God's grace would be sufficient. That was good to know.
It wasn't helping those two boys any, though. He had to watch that, thinking of himself more than them. They were the ones had to be saved. They had wandered from the truth and it was up to him to bring them back. For . . . 'whoever brings back a sinner from the error of his ways will save his own soul from death' James, five-something 'and it will cover a multitude of sins.'
That was the whole thing. If he could save these two boys he'd have nothing to worry about the rest of his life. He could maybe even slip once in a while give in to temptation without fear of his soul getting sent to hell. He wouldn't give in on purpose. You couldn't do that. But if somebody dragged you in and you went in scrapping, that was different.
Boys, Mr. Manly said, whoever brings back a sinner saves his own soul from death and it will cover a multitude of sins. Now do you want your souls to be saved, or don't you?
Mr. Manly spent two days reading and studying before he called Raymond and Harold into the office again.
While they were standing by the desk he asked them how they were getting along. Neither of them wanted to answer that. He asked if there had been any trouble between them since the last time they were here. They both said no, sir. He asked if there had been any mean words between them. They said no, sir. Then it looked like they were getting somewhere, Mr. Manly said, and told them to bring the chairs over and sit down.
'We know,' he said to Raymond, 'that we have passed from death unto life because we love the brethren. He that loveth not his brethren abideth in death.' Mr. Manly looked at Harold Jackson. 'Whoever hateth his brother is a murderer, and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.' James, chapter three, the fourteenth and fifteenth verses.
They were looking at him. That was good. They weren't squinting or frowning, as if they were trying to figure out the words, or nodding agreement; but by golly they were looking at him and not out the window.
Brethren means brother, he said. You know that.
It doesn't mean just your real brother, if you happen to have any brothers. It means everybody's your brethren. You two are brethren and I'm your brethren, everybody here at Yuma and everybody in the whole world, we are all brethren of Jesus Christ and sons of Almighty God. Even women. What I'm talking about, even women are your brethren, but we don't have to get into that. I'm saying we are all related by blood and I'll tell you why. You listening?
Raymond's gaze came away from the window, his eyes opening wide with interest.
Harold said, Yes-suh, captain.
We are all related, Mr. Manly said, watching them, because we all come from the first two people in the world, old Adam and Eve, who started the human race. They had children and their children had children and the children's children had some more, and it kept going that way until the whole world become populated.
Harold Jackson said, Who did the children marry?
They married each other.
I mean children in the same family.
Mr. Manly nodded. Each other. They married among theirselves.
You mean a boy did it with his sister?
Oh, Mr. Manly said. Yes, but it was different then. God said it was all right because it was the only way to get the earth populated. See, in just a few generations you got so many people they're marrying cousins now, and second cousins, and a couple hundred years it's not even like they're kin any more.
Mr. Manly decided not to tell them about Adam living to be nine hundred and thirty and Seth and Enoch and Kenan and Methuselah, all of them getting up past nine hundred years old before they died. He had to leave out details or it might confuse them. It was enough to tell them how the population multiplied and the people gradually spread all over the world.
If we all come from the same people, Raymond said, where do niggers come from?
So Mr. Manly had to tell them about Noah and his three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth, and how Ham made some dirty remark on seeing his daddy sleeping naked after drinking too much wine. For that Noah banished Ham and made his son a slave of slaves. Ham and his family had most likely gone on down to Africa and that was where niggers came from, descendents of Ham.
Harold Jackson said, Where does it say Indins come from?
Mr. Manly shook his head. It don't say and it don't matter. People moved all over the world, and those living in a certain place got to look alike on account of the climate. So now you got your white race, your yellow race, and your black race.
What's an Indin? Harold said. What race?
They're not sure, Mr. Manly answered. Probably somewhere in between. Like yellow with a little nigger thrown in. You can call it the Indian race if you want. The colored race is the only one mentioned in the Bible, on account of the story of Noah and Ham.
Harold said, How do they know everybody was white before that?
Mr. Manly frowned. What kind of a question was that? They just know it. I guess because Adam and Eve was white. He said then, There's nothing wrong with being a nigger. God made you a nigger for a reason. I mean some people have to be niggers and some have to be Indians. Some have to be white. But we are all still brethren.
Harold's eyes remained on Mr. Manly. It say in the Bible this man went to Africa?
It wasn't called Africa then, but they're pretty sure that's where he went. His people multiplied and before you know it they're living all over Africa and that's how you got your different tribes. Your Zulus. Your Pygmies. You got your oh, all different ones with those African names.
Zulus, Harold Jackson said. I heard something about Zulus one time.
Mr. Manly leaned forward on the edge of the desk. What did you hear about them?
I don't know. I remember somebody talking about Zulus. Somebody saying the word.
Harold, you know something? For all you know you might be a Zulu yourself.
Harold gave him a funny look. I was born in Fort Valley, Georgia.
Where was your mama and daddy born?
Fort Valley.
Where was your granddaddy born?
I don't know.
Or your great-granddaddy. You know, he might have been born in Africa and brought over here as a slave. Maybe not him, but somebody before him, a kin of yours, was brought over. All your kin before him lived in Africa, and if they lived in a certain part of Africa then, by golly, they were Zulus.
Mr. Manly had a book about Africa in his collection. He remembered a drawing of a Zulu warrior, a tall Negro standing with a spear and a slender black and white cowhide shield.
He said, Harold, your people are fine hunters and warriors. Oh, they're heathen,
they paint theirselves up red and yellow and wear beads made out of lion's claws; but, Harold, they got to kill the lion first, with spears, and you don't go out and kill a lion unless you got plenty of nerve.
With a spear, huh? Harold said.
Long spear they use, and this shield made out of cowhide. Some of them grow little beards and cut holes in the lobes of their ears and stick in these big hunks of dried sugar cane, if I remember correctly.
They have sugar cane?
That's what it said in the book.
They had a lot of sugar cane in Cuba. I never see anybody put it in their ear.
Like earrings, Mr. Manly said. I imagine they use all kinds of things. Gold, silver, if they got it.
What do they wear?
Oh, just a little skimpy outfit. Some kind of cloth or animal skin around their middle. Nothing up here. Wait a second, Mr. Manly said. He went over to his bookcase. He found the book right away, but had to skim through it twice before he found the picture and laid the book open in front of Harold. There. That's your Zulu warrior.
Harold hunched over the book. As he studied the picture Mr. Manly said, Something else I remember. It says in there these Zulus can run. I mean run. The boys training to be warriors, they'd run twenty miles, take a little rest and run some more. Run thirty-forty miles a day isn't anything for a Zulu. Then go out and kill a lion. Or a elephant.
Mr. Manly noticed Raymond San Carlos glancing over at the book and he said quickly, Same with your Indians; especially your desert tribes, like the Apaches. They can run all day long, I understand, and not take a drink of water till sundown. They know where to find water, too, way out in the middle of the desert. Man told me once, when Apaches are going where they know there isn't any water they take a horse's intestine and fill it full of water and wrap it around their bodies. He said he'd match an Apache Indian against a camel for traveling across the desert without any water.
There's plenty of water, Raymond said, if you know where to look.
That's what I understand.
Some of the older men at San Carlos, they'd take us boys and make us go up in the mountains and stay there two, three days without food or water.
You did that?
Plenty of times.
You'd find water?
Sure, and something to eat. Not much, but enough to hold us.
Say, I just read in the paper, Mr. Manly said. You know who died the other day? Geronimo.
Is that right?
Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Died of pneumonia.
That's too bad, Raymond said. I mean I think he would rather have got killed fighting.
You ever seen him? No, you would have been too young.
Sure, I seen him. Listen, I'll tell you something I never told anybody. My father was in his band. Geronimo's.
Is that a fact?
He was killed in Mexico when the soldiers went down there.
My goodness, Mr. Manly said, we're talking about warriors, you're the son of an Apache warrior. I never told anybody that.
Why not? I'd think you'd be proud to tell it. It doesn't do me any good.
But if it's true You think I'm lying?
I mean since it's a fact, why not tell it?
It don't make any difference to me. I could be Apache, I could be Mexican, I'm in Yuma the rest of my life.
But you're living that life, Mr. Manly said. If a person's an Indian then he should look at himself as an Indian. Like I told Harold, God made him a nigger for a reason. All right, God made you an Indian. There's nothing wrong with being an Indian. Why, do you know that about half our states have Indian names? Mississippi.
The state I come from, Tennessee. Arizona. The Colorado River out yonder. Yuma.
I don't know, Harold said, that spear looks like it could break easy.
Mr. Manly looked over at him and at the book. They know how to make 'em.
They fight other people?
Sure they did. Beat 'em, too. What I understand, your Zulus owned most of the southern part of Africa, took it from other tribes and ruled over them.
Never got beat, uh?
Not that I ever heard of. No, sir, they're the greatest warriors in Africa.
Nobody ever beat the Apache, Raymond said, till the U. S. Army come with all their goddamn guns.
Raymond, don't ever take the Lord's name in vain like that.
Apaches beat the Pimas, the Papagos, Maricopas took anything we wanted from them.
Well, I don't hold with raiding and killing, Mr. Manly said, but I'll tell you there is something noble about your uneducated savage that you don't see in a lot of white men. I mean just the way your warrior stands, up straight with his shoulders back and never says too much, doesn't talk just to hear himself, like a lot of white people I know. I'll tell you something else, boys. Savage warriors have never been known to lie or go back on their word, and that's a fact. Man up at the reservation told me that Indians don't even have a word in their language for lie. Same thing with your Zulus. I reckon if a boy can run all day long and kill lions with a spear, he don't ever have to lie.
I never heard of Apaches with spears, Raymond said.
Oh, yes, they had them. And bows and arrows. Harold was waiting. I expect the Zulus got guns now, don't they?
I don't know about that, Mr. Manly answered. Maybe they don't need guns. Figure spears are good enough. A smile touched his mouth as he looked across the desk at Raymond and Harold. The thing that tickles me, he said, I'm liable to have a couple of real honest-to-goodness Apache and Zulu warriors sitting right here in my office and I didn't even know it.
That evening, when Bob Fisher got back after supper, the guard at the sally port told him Mr. Manly wanted to see him right away. Fisher asked him what for, and the guard said how was he supposed to know. Fisher told the man to watch his mouth, and headed across the compound to see what the little squirt wanted.
Fisher paused by the stairs and looked over toward the cook shack. The women would be starting their bath about now.
Mr. Manly was writing something, but put it aside as Fisher came in. He said, Pull up a chair, and seemed anxious to talk.
There's a couple of things I got to do yet tonight. I wanted to talk to you about our Apache and our Zulu.
How's that?
Raymond and Harold. I've been thinking about Frank Shelby's idea he seems like a pretty sensible young man, doesn't he?
Jesus Christ, Bob Fisher thought. He said, I guess he's smart enough.
Mr. Manly smiled. Though not smart enough to stay out of jail. Well, I've been thinking about this boxing-match idea. I want you to know I've given it a lot of thought.
Fisher waited.
I want Frank Shelby to understand it too you might mention it to him if you see him before I do.
I'll tell him, Fisher said. He started to go.
Hey, I haven't told you what I decided.
Fisher turned to the desk again.
I've been thinking a boxing match wouldn't be too good. We want them to stop fighting and we tell them to go ahead and fight. That doesn't sound right, does it?
I'll tell him that.
You're sure in a hurry this evening, Bob.
It's time I made the rounds is all.
Well, I could walk around with you if you want and we could talk.
That's all right, Fisher said, go ahead.
Well, as I said, we won't have the boxing match. You know what we're going to have instead?
What?
We're going to have a race. I mean Harold and Raymond are going to have a race.
A race, Fisher said.
A foot race. The faster man wins and gets some kind of a prize, but I haven't figured that part of it out yet. They're going to run a race, Fisher said.
Out in the exercise yard. Down to the far end and back, maybe a couple of times.
When do you want this race held?
Tomorrow I guess, during free time.
You figure it'll stop them fighting, uh?
We don't have anything to lose, Mr. Manly said. A good race might just do the trick.
Get out of here, Bob Fisher thought. He said, Well, I'll tell them.
I've already done that.
I'll tell Frank Shelby then. Fisher edged toward the door and got his hand on the knob.
You know what it is? Mr. Manly was leaning back in his chair with a peaceful, thoughtful expression. It's sort of a race of races, he said. You know what I mean? The Negro against the Indian, black man against red man. I don't mean to prove that one's better than the other. I mean as a way to stir up their pride and get them interested in doing something with theirselves. You know what I mean?
Bob Fisher stared at him.
See, the way I figure them Mr. Manly motioned to the chair again. Sit down, Bob, I'll tell you how I see these two boys, and why I believe we can help them.
By the time Fisher got down to the yard, the women had taken their bath. They were back in their cellblock and he had to find R. E. Baylis for the keys.
I already locked everybody in, the guard said.
I know you did. That's why I need the keys. Is there something wrong somewhere?
Bob Fisher had never wanted to look at that woman as bad as he did this evening. God, he felt like he had to look at her, but everybody was getting in his way, wasting time. His wife at supper nagging at him again about moving to Florence. The little squirt preacher who believed he could save a couple of bad convicts. Now a slow-witted guard asking him questions.
Just give me the keys, Fisher said.
He didn't go over there directly. He walked past the TB cellblock first and looked in at the empty yard, at the lantern light showing in most of the cells and the dark ovals of the cells that were not occupied. The nigger and the Indian were in separate cells. They were doing a fair job on the wall; but, Jesus, they'd get it done a lot sooner if the little squirt would let them work instead of wasting time preaching to them. Now foot races. God Almighty.
Forty Lashes Less One Page 9